And, One Day
by wickeddominatrix
Summary: Death tastes different than Draco remembers. It used to be electrifying, terrifying. When did it change into bitterness? / Or, Harry dies, and so does Draco. Oneshot. Harry/Draco.


**I'm sorry this is so horrible. Legit. **

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And, one day, Harry Potter saw it. Beauty. And beautiful wasn't something Harry said a lot, but when he did, oh, it was beautiful.

And, one day, Harry died.

Not in the literal sense, but his eyes . . . they don't shine, the don't shine for you anymore. Draco saw it. The terrible, horrible, mean, mean, mean Draco Malfoy saw it. He rather missed it. The shine of the fight in the Boy Who Fucking Lived eyes. The fight went out of the boy.

Draco saw it first. He saw the beauty. But he saw raw pain. He knew it would happen soon, but dammit, he wanted him. He wanted to feel.

He never would.

Harry died.

And he died and he was buried and people cried, and dammit, Draco cried. But he knew.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Fucking Lived died, and he left, and he was gone, and Draco, oh, Draco.

.

It was the end of something amazing and something beautiful. Draco sits alone at times and just presses bruises and taps scars, so many scars, of so many things. He traces bumps and litters his body with memories of that last nights. He guesses about the people who watch him. Draco murmurs stories of when they last danced or last kissed, or last ate dinner, because he isn't one to move on and let go.

They try to make him go to therapy, as though talking about it would somehow make it fucking better. Talking isn't going to bring back love, nor happiness. It doesn't do shit, for Merlin's sake. It just doesn't.

They say his eyes deaden at the mention of leaving his room, or when anyone says his name, so, shhh, don't say anything.

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Death tastes different than Draco remembers. It used to be electrifying, terrifying. When did it change into bitterness? He doesn't know, but tell him when you do.

Merlin, he wishes he was back at Hogwarts and that this didn't hurt so much. He wishes he could punch Harry all over again, and insult his dumb friends, who are broken but he doesn't see why. They didn't know him like he does. The freckles lining down to the bottom on his stomach, the curve of his wrist on Draco's pale back or the feeling of his lips leading down... down... down.

Draco knows he won't ever kiss softly again, or eat chocolate chip cookies the same way. He'll only like people with cracked lips, and never let one slip seamlessly into his life the same way Harry did.

He tells himself that this is why you mustn't let something wild into your heart, your home. It will tear up your sheets and break your windows, and you'll curl up in terror, waiting for it to end, just end, end... end.

And when it leaves, you'll crawl after it, because it was so beautiful. But it's too far gone to care.

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Harry had trumpeter lungs. The kind that make you see that he's here, he's ready. He's happy. The kind that make people stand just a bit more tall, a bit more prouder. The kind of boy that makes you just scream, but when he's there, you just want to feel his hollow bones.

He makes Draco want to hold him just a bit tighter, because he's the guy that whispers in ink, and that's the thing that makes him know, _he's gonna leave me, he's not mine. Not forever, never forever. _

Draco fell in love with him for those lungs. His thin wrists, and his first words to him. Draco fell in love with him, and he fell in love with Draco, but never. Because he's a little man, and there's a million little men out there, but for now, crawl into bed with him. Kiss him, fall in love with his lips, hold him tight.

Cuddle with him, love him. Write letters to the moon, send them to the sun. Tell strangers about him. Kiss him, over and over again. Fall in love with the boy who has trumpeter lungs.

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Draco pictures love to be sneaky. It is. It knocks you over and breaks your heart, all while pretending it's good, but it's not, and damn, does Draco hate love. Sorrow is easier to deal with. Just sit and just cry and just drink and just, just, just... just don't die. Tragedy tears people apart much more then it brings them together.

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Nightmares aren't what Draco fears most. It is dreams of which Harry is back, and of which Draco isn't drinking, but smiling. He hates the false sense of security that comes with dreams. It's fake, and while Draco may be hidden, he's not a liar. (Liar.)

.

It's sad, really. How no one really moves on from what you're supposed to move on from. First loves, almost love, lost loves...

Draco doesn't think life should always run back to love. How it is the first things on everyone's mind when they wake up, and fall asleep.

Hey, some people don't sleep for a reason.


End file.
